iv ‘Day’s beginning or my own?’     Dayspring is slender, and moves below the threshold of a sense, touching other wordless origins within its own: I cannot tell which sense it wakes, and ask: ‘Day’s beginning or my own?’ No answer stands, beyond the mute and single insight of shared dawn, walking— light— until the weight of pasts unworded crowd its gate.       A road assumed: titles and first lines